


tonight we may lose the battle

by etben



Series: ludicrous o. henry nonsense [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Clothing Kink, M/M, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21792280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/pseuds/etben
Summary: “Yes," Moira says, "yes, you simplymusttake this opportunity to commune with your caparisons, totrulyunderstand your character through the lens of their sartorial self-expression.”  She nods firmly.  “In fact, I absolutely insist that you all do so.”Patrick communes.  (David helps.)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: ludicrous o. henry nonsense [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570393
Comments: 47
Kudos: 346





	tonight we may lose the battle

“Okay,” Patrick says slowly, sorting through the pile of fabric Candice hands him. “So we’ve got...pants, that’s good, and the jacket, and the, uh, harness.” He lifts up the jumble of straps on top of the pile, but it falls apart under his hands, leaving him holding a weird little loop of elastic with leather details. “Um, and this, which is…”

“A sock garter,” Candice says, beaming. “There’s two, see?” She snags a second loop out of the scramble of straps and buckles.

“Right, okay.” Patrick tilts his head. “And the point of the sock garter is…”

“To keep your socks up, duh,” Alexis says, leaning over his shoulder. “And to be, like, _super_ cute. Good job, Candice!”

“Thanks!” Candice accepts an air kiss, then turns back to Patrick as Alexis flutters off. “It’s actually really interesting. In the 1920s, men started wearing shorter trousers, which meant you could see their socks, and so patterned socks became really popular. But,” she says, holding up a finger, “we didn’t yet have the technology to do really good elastic ribbing, so the socks wouldn’t stay up on their own.”

“Hence the sock garters,” Patrick says, nodding. “Okay, that makes sense, I guess.”

“Go try it on,” Candice says. “Let me know if you need any help with any of the straps.”

Patrick’s not sure how he feels about his costume, honestly. The shorts are fine, but the undershirt is a lot thinner than anything he’d wear normally, and the harness is—well. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it wraps snugly around his chest, a pressure he can’t ignore. The straps that cross between his thighs highlight his dick, making him feel provocative and vulnerable all at once.

Still. Candice let him have the undershirt; that’s something.

“And at least you have pants,” Stevie says. “And shoes you can actually walk in.” She leans against the counter, draped in satin, and gives him a once-over. A smirk curls at the corner of her mouth. “David’s going to lose his mind.”

“Oh.” The idea is stunning and electric: taking this dangerous exposed feeling and sharing it with David, letting David look at him like this, letting David _touch_ him like this. “I—um.” He shakes his head, bites the inside of his cheek, reminds himself that it would probably be incredibly obvious if he got hard right now. “I like your, uh.” He gestures at Stevie’s costume. “Your robe thing.”

“Mmm,” Stevie says. “It’s really soft.” She turns to Candice. “Can we take our costumes home over the weekend, Candice?” Her voice is deadpan, but the glance she shoots back at Patrick is pure evil. “Just so we can get comfortable with them?”

“A _wonderful_ idea, Stevie,” Moira Rose says, emerging through the door behind Candice. “Yes, you simply _must_ take this opportunity to commune with your caparisons, to _truly_ understand your character through the lens of their sartorial self-expression.” She nods firmly. “In fact, I absolutely insist that you all do so.”

“Sure,” Candice says, looking up from her clipboard, “just make sure you bring everything back next week.” She raises an eyebrow at Stevie. “And if anything gets stained, for fuck’s sake, call me _right away_.” She’s not even looking at Patrick, but he can feel himself blushing anyway, his mind racing with ways his costume could get stained.

“You’re welcome,” Stevie murmurs to him, low enough that nobody else can hear, and oh, she’s the _worst_.

***

Patrick makes it through rehearsal; between the choreography and Mrs. Rose’s instructions, he’s pretty thoroughly distracted, not to mention exhausted. He changes back into his normal clothes for the walk home and seriously considers just leaving the costume at the theater. He’s got lines to learn and songs to practice, not to mention the nightmare of the choreography; “forming an aesthetic connection with the rôle” can wait for another week.

He brings it home, though, tucked into a brown paper bag from the recycling bin. It’s not a lot of clothing; the bag is startlingly light in his hands.

Back at his apartment, Patrick showers, puts on pajamas, opens a beer, checks his phone. The BREWER COUSINS UNITED text chain is full of chatter about the Blue Jays’ chances, his mom wants to know if he needs a crock pot, and David is on his way back from Elm Valley. Patrick checks the time stamp on that one—ten minutes ago, which means he has anywhere between twenty and forty minutes, depending on whether or not David gets stuck behind a tractor or stops for ice cream on the way.

 **Drive safe! See you tonight!** Patrick waits for the message to send, then sets his phone carefully face-down on the kitchen table and turns toward the bed.

It’s a little hard to get the straps situated on his own, especially since he doesn’t want to adjust any of them too much, but eventually Patrick manages to make them all lie flat. The sock garters are easy enough, although he worries a little about snagging the silky fabric of the socks. Patrick’s not sure what kind of material they are, except that it feels expensive, decadent. David would know, probably. 

The thought is innocuous but something about it hits Patrick like a brick, a roiling explosion of heat and nerves curling up from his gut. David knows so much about fashion, clothes, fabric; he could look at Patrick right now and give a lecture on trends in modern menswear, running his eyes all over Patrick’s body, noticing everything.

Patrick takes a deep breath, feeling the way the harness pulls at him, holding him tight, steady, contained and controlled. It’s good that he’s doing this now, really, alone in his apartment where he can get a handle on what he’s feeling. It would be rude, probably, to make Candice deal with whatever it is that’s going through his body right now, the sweet hot rush of energy humming under his skin. Rude, and unprofessional, and—inappropriate.

Patrick’s eyes are closed, somehow, which isn’t the point of this exercise. He blinks them open, stands in front of the mirror—floor-length, at David’s insistence—and makes himself look.

He was right, earlier: the harness makes it incredibly obvious how hard he is. His dick bulges between the leather straps, unmistakable and obscene. He can see his nipples through the thin fabric of the undershirt, and the neck is cut low enough that he can see the bite mark David left on his collarbone last week. Even the socks are suggestive, which is ridiculous, they’re _socks_ , but they’re sheer and sleek against his calves and they look—sexy. Dangerous. Provocative.

“Well, _this_ is certainly fun,” David says from behind him.

“David!” Patrick spins around, startled. “I didn’t—I mean—” He swallows hard, feeling himself flush. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself.” David’s voice is low and amused. “I texted you that I was on my way.” He looks Patrick over slowly and smiles. “And you got ready for me.”

“I—no,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “No, I’m just—Candice wanted us to take our costumes home,” he says. “To try them on and, uh. To get used to them.”

“Mmmm,” David says. “Is that it?” He steps forward, unhurried, stepping slowly forward until he’s right in front of Patrick, just barely on the edge of too close. “Because that’s not what I see.” 

“ _David_ ,” Patrick says, his voice all heat and air, aching for something he can’t name. 

“I see a lovely little present to unwrap.” David reaches out and slides a single finger under one of the straps, tugging gently, and Patrick sways towards him, caught and trembling. “Is that what you want, baby?” 

“I—” Patrick can’t breathe, can’t think, can only let David pull him steadily closer. David’s eyes are gleaming, his smile delighted and conspiratorial, like they’re in on this together, and it soothes something in Patrick even as the rest of him shivers.

“You knew I was coming home,” David says, still in that low, rough voice, and slides his free hand under the other side of the harness. “You wanted me to find you, just like this. You wanted me to see you all dressed up.” His knuckles press against Patrick’s chest as he grips the straps, giving Patrick a little shake.

There’s a moment when Patrick starts to resist, to plant his feet and stand steady, to push back against David, and then he—doesn’t. He can feel exactly what he’d have to do to brace himself, but something about the pressure of the harness, the gentle scrape of David’s thumbnail over his nipple, the silky press of the socks against his calves—he feels his body loosening, softening, letting David move him from side to side.

“Patrick?” When Patrick blinks his eyes open, David smiles at him, that sweet concerned smile he always gets when he’s worried about making something good for Patrick. “Is that okay? Is that what—because if it’s not,” David says, his voice lighter, more normal, “if it’s not, that’s fine, I just thought—”

Which is just so perfectly David, to pivot from seductive to solicitous on a dime. Patrick loves him so much, _so_ much, feels himself bubbling over with delight and affection and a boundless gratitude for this man, this wonderful, ridiculous man. He laughs, trembling and breathless, and shakes his head, lost for words. David frowns and starts to loosen his grip, which, no, not the point; Patrick grabs David’s wrists, holding his hands in place.

“No,” Patrick says, “no, yes, David, it’s—I want it.” He takes a deep breath, feeling his chest rise against the constraint of the harness, the steady weight of David’s hands, David’s eyes. “I want this.”

“Fuck,” David sighs, “fuck, you’re so—” he shakes his head, cutting himself off, and drags Patrick close for a kiss. It’s messy and sloppy and frantic in the best way, all slick tongue and the grabby, insistent tug of David’s teeth against his lower lip. Patrick grabs onto David’s shoulders and lets himself be kissed until he’s all but hanging in David’s grip, gasping and dizzy.

Eventually, David pulls back, brushing a last gentle kiss over Patrick’s lips. He lets go of the harness and rests one hand against Patrick’s cheek; Patrick leans into the warm stability of David’s palm, caught and held and seen and loved.

“If you need a break,” David says, “or you’re uncomfortable, or if it’s just not working for you, or—”

“I’ll tell you,” Patrick says, leaning forward to press a kiss against David’s jaw. “I promise, I’ll tell you, but—I want this, David.” Hearing the words out loud gives him a jolt, a burst of electricity in the pit of his stomach. “I _really_ want this.”

David’s eyes flicker closed and his fingers twitch against Patrick’s cheek, his chest. He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly through his nose, then opens his eyes and gives Patrick a smile full of heat and promise.

“It’s good to want things,” David says, low and seductive. “But you’re going to have to get a little more specific than that, Patrick.” His hand feels like fire through the thin fabric of Patrick’s shirt, like a brand, like he’s going to leave fingerprints all over Patrick’s skin. “What do you want, baby?”

“David, _fuck_.” It’s so much: those words, David’s voice, the steady, inescapable pressure of the straps all over his body.

“Mmm, try again,” David says. “Tell me what you want.” He leans in and presses a slow, sucking kiss over the hinge of Patrick’s jaw, then pulls back to murmur directly into his ear. “We’ll start easy: do you want me to kiss you?” Patrick doesn’t answer, just turns his head until he can reach David’s lips, kissing him quick and sloppy. “Okay, fair enough,” David says, drawing back. “Do you want me to take your clothes off?”

“I—” Patrick closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, smelling the spice of David’s cologne, the barest edge of sweat. “I—no,” he says finally.

“Good to know.” David brushes a kiss over Patrick’s cheek, right where Patrick knows he’s flushed red with embarrassment and desire. “So you want to keep the outfit, okay, a solid choice,” David says. “Hmmm.” He chews on his lip, frowning, but his eyes are sparkling with excitement. “Do you want to get on your knees for me?” Patrick opens his mouth to say _yes_ , because he does, of course he does, but David continues: “Or do you want me to suck you in your pretty clothes?”

Patrick makes a noise, high and choked and desperate, and David smirks at him.

“That’s what I thought,” he says. “Okay, come here,” he says, steering Patrick deftly towards the bed and pushing him down. Patrick lets himself be moved, lets David hold him, push him, direct him. “And you just—there,” David says, nodding in satisfaction. He gives Patrick another lingering, obvious once-over, his eyes sliding slowly down Patrick’s body. Patrick feels it like a physical touch, heat and pressure dragging over his skin and curling around his bones.

“David,” he says, not sure what the rest of the sentence is but needing to say _something_ , to make that connection. “David, I need—”

“Shhhh,” David says, and drops to his knees in a smooth, easy motion. He curls his hands over Patrick’s knees, the tips of his fingers easing up under the hem of the shorts, down to the place where the garters dig into Patrick’s calves. “I know,” David says. “I’ve got you, baby.” He rubs his thumbs back and forth over Patrick’s skin, soothing and incendiary in equal measure. “Spread your legs for me?” Patrick complies, aching, and David leans in, shouldering his way gently between Patrick’s thighs.

It’s a stretch, an echo of discomfort on muscles already sore from the demands of Moira’s choreography, and then David drops his head into Patrick’s lap and just— _breathes_ , warm and damp and right over Patrick’s dick.

“Very nice,” David says, his voice rough and rumbling. “Very, _very_ nice.” He turns his head and rubs his cheek against the bulge in Patrick’s pants, slow and deliberate, then takes a deep breath in through his nose like he’s—like he’s _savoring_ Patrick, fuck. “Is this for me?” He looks up at Patrick through his eyelashes, beautiful and dangerous.

“Yes,” Patrick says, his voice cracking. “Yes, David, please, _please_ —” Patick tries not to move too much, not to disturb David and whatever plans he’s making, but it’s not easy. His thighs are shaking with the effort not to twist and thrash and fuck up against David’s face, his cheeks, his wet, dirty, wonderful mouth.

David knows it, too: he draws back, one eyebrow raised, and smirks up at Patrick.

“Did you want something?” He licks his lips and looks down at the bulge of Patrick’s dick, blunt and insistent between the straps of the harness. “Because I know what I want.”

“Then take it,” Patrick says, too wound up for anything polite. David does this to him, always does: turns him into someone who begs and burns and demands and _wants_ , wants so much, so openly. “Take it, David, it’s yours—” 

“Fuck,” David says, fumbling at the zip of the shorts, “fuck, you’re so—” He gets them open and Patrick gasps with the relief of pressure, the sudden rush of air against his dick, flushed and wet and aching. 

“Please, David,” he says, almost mindless with need, “please, I need it, fuck, please.”

“God, you’re _gorgeous_ ,” David says, and wraps his lips around the head of Patrick’s dick. His mouth is hot and wet, his tongue a flicker of slick pressure, and he closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose, slow and satisfied. He always seems so peaceful like this, so quietly delighted to be sucking Patrick’s dick, and the contrast between the delicate sweep of his eyelashes and the filthy press of his tongue is almost hotter than the actual blowjob.

...but only almost. David, unsurprisingly, is really good at this.

David sucks him like that for long minutes, slow and lush and languid, before pulling back and looking up at Patrick, licking his lips.

“Sorry,” he says, “don’t mind me, just going to—” He fusses with the fabric of the shorts, tugging it as far down as he can with the harness in the way, adjusting the hem of the undershirt. “There,” he says finally, nodding. “Much better.” He smooths his hand over the straps. “ _God_ , you look good like this.”

Patrick makes a noise, some instinctive, wordless denial, and David raises a sharp eyebrow.

“You don’t think so?”

“I mean, I guess,” Patrick says, caught by that narrow, assessing gaze. “If you say so.” He’s never really thought of his body like that: like something to be looked at, appreciated, _desired_. He likes his body for the things he can do with it, for the strength in his arms and legs, the sureness of his feet, the precision of his hands. 

“I _love_ looking at you,” David says, frank and unornamented in the way that he only is when they’re alone together. “I love your posture, the way you stand.” He presses his face against Patrick’s leg, rubs the rough scrape of his stubble against the inside of Patrick’s knee, shivery and electric. “I love your skin,” David says, “even though it’s completely ridiculous how good your skin is and you _don’t_ deserve it.” 

This is a recurring theme for David, and Patrick can’t help but smile. “I’m sorry?”

“You _should_ be sorry,” David says, and bites Patrick’s thigh, sucking hard. “But you bruise up beautifully for me, so I guess I’ll allow it.” He leans in and bites again in almost exactly the same spot, worrying the trapped skin with his tongue, a sharp pain that blooms into a hot, throbbing ache.

“David,” Patrick says, “David, careful—”

“Don’t worry,” David says, pressing a gentle kiss to that tender skin. “It’s above the hemline; nobody will see.” He raises his eyebrow again. “Nobody but me, I mean.” He makes a thoughtful noise. “Now there’s a thought,” he says, staring at Patrick’s left knee like it’s hiding the secrets of the universe.

Patrick waits, but nothing more seems to be forthcoming. He nudges David in the ribs with his knee and David jerks, shaking his head abruptly.

“What’s the thought?”

David blinks, then smirks. “Oh, nothing, really,” he says airily. “Just wondering: do you think you could stay still long enough for me to bite you all over? Or would I have to tie you down?” He tilts his head. “Either is fine with me, for the record, but I do have some silk rope that would look phenomenal with your coloring.” 

Patrick chokes on nothing and David smiles, sunny and dirty. “Never mind, not the point,” he says, waving Patrick’s objections away before he can decide if he’s going to make them. “I was telling you how much I like looking at you.”

“You don’t have to,” Patrick says. His skin feels hot and tight, sunburnt by the light of David’s unwavering attention. “Really, David, I don’t need—you don’t have to—”

“I think I do, though.” David tilts his head, taps a finger against his chin in a way that’s simultaneously theatrical and completely sincere. “I like the way you blush,” he says, thoughtfully. “Especially your ears, it’s very cute, but also I like watching it spread down your neck when I’m fucking you.”

“David—” The look of frank admiration on David’s face feels like a riptide, something deep and slow and overwhelming, dragging Patrick under in a wave of confusion and longing. Patrick has to close his eyes, turn his face aside, try to remember how to breathe.

“Mmm, that too,” David says. “When you’re so turned on that you can’t even look at me any more—I love the way you close your eyes so tight, I love the line of your neck, I love it when you push your face against the bed and let me take you apart.”

“David, _fuck_.” Patrick can’t breathe, wants to hide his face in a pillow or possibly in another province, wants David to stop talking and wants him to keep going in equal measure.

“I don’t love your clothes, but I love looking at you in them,” David says. “How your arms look when you roll up your sleeves, the way your shirt comes untucked in the back sometimes, if I make you restock the top shelf.” His hand steals up and rubs along Patrick’s waist, the strip of skin where the undershirt is riding up, sweaty and secret and intimate, bracketed by straps. “And I’ve got to say, I’m really liking this look.”

“Well,” Patrick manages, blinking his eyes open, “you did design it.”

David tsks. “That was Patricia Zipprodt, excuse you _very_ much,” he says. “I simply helped Candice adapt her original vision to your personal style and comfort zone.” He tosses his head, preening.

“You did a good job,” Patrick says, taking the cue. “It’s very...something.”

“It’s _hot_ ,” David informs him. “It’s stupidly hot, even with the undershirt, and you look _so good_ in it.” 

“David—” Patrick shakes his head again, less a denial now than an outlet for the kinetic energy boiling under his skin, but David keeps going.

“It’s hot, it’s _so_ hot, do you have any idea how good you look like this?” He tucks a finger under one of the sock garter ßand snaps it gently against Patrick’s skin. “Wrapped up like this for me to admire?” He leans in and licks gently at the head of Patrick’s dick, pulling away after a second with an obscene noise. “Sorry,” he says, making absolutely zero effort to sound apologetic. “I just don’t want to talk with my mouth full.” He smirks. “Really, we should do this the other way around, so that you can suck my dick and I can tell you how pretty you look sucking my dick.”

“I—” Patrick shakes his head again, laughing hoarsely. “I think I might actually die if we tried that.”

“Mmmm, but you look so good sucking my dick,” David says. “Your mouth is already gorgeous, but it gets all pink and swollen.” He stretches up one hand and swipes his thumb over Patrick’s mouth, a there-and-gone pressure that disappears before Patrick can open for it. “And you blush like crazy, all over, I love it.” He noses gently at the base of Patrick’s dick, the patch of skin and hair that’s exposed among the tangle of fabric and straps. “I love how much you love it,” he says, “I love when I can see your shoulder moving and I know that you’re jerking off, that you like sucking my cock so much that you just have to touch yourself.”

Patrick has one hand around his dick without consciously intending it, needing the contact, the friction, needing _something_ to bleed off the wild, frantic energy rushing through his body—but David smacks his hand away.

“That’s mine,” he says, and Patrick—breaks.

“Then suck me,” he says, low and demanding. “God, fuck, David, _please_ , just—something, anything, please.”

“Oh, well, if you’re going to be like _that_ about it,” David says, but he leans in and swallows Patrick down.

When David’s not teasing Patrick to the limits of human endurance, he’s very straightforward with his blowjobs: he takes Patrick deep, all wet warmth and suction, the slick curl of his tongue, the insistent pressure of his hands. He hums with satisfaction, low in his throat, and the sound reverberates through Patrick’s entire body, crossing back over itself and building until Patrick is just one giant, overworked nerve, trembling and aching on the verge of collapse.

And then David yanks _hard_ on one of the harness straps, pulling until the nylon digs into the exposed skin of Patrick’s hip, and Patrick shatters, falling apart in David’s mouth, under David’s hands and eyes. 

David gentles him through it, pulling back just on the edge of too much. Patrick collapses back against the bed, his limbs heavy, spine loose and liquid, breathing hard. He hears, vaguely, the familiar sounds of David standing up and moving easily around the apartment: the squeak of the cabinet over the sink, the quiet hiss of water from the tap, the gentle clink of an empty glass against the countertop. 

Eventually, David’s footsteps come close again, the mattress dipping down as he sits. Patrick lets himself roll lazily into David’s orbit, ending up with his face pressed to warm skin, slightly hairy: David’s thigh. Patrick presses a slow, sloppy kiss to that beloved skin, turning his head back and forth, reveling in the texture against his lips.

“So that was—” David’s hand curves gently around Patrick’s head, his thumb soothing back and forth behind Patrick’s ear, ruffling the hair and then smoothing it back down. “I liked that,” he says, soft and close and intimate. “Did you like that, Patrick?”

Patrick’s first instinct, as always, is to gesture at his dick, limp and still slick with David’s spit, to say, _gee, David, does it_ look _like I enjoyed that?_ David’s so picky about it, though, about the difference between physical arousal and mental enjoyment.

 _“A lot of stuff can get you off,”_ he said, one of the first times they fought about this. _“I want to know what makes you feel_ good.” And he’s right, of course: Patrick, of all people, knows how an orgasm can be the least important part of sex.

So Patrick breathes through the moment, presses his face into David’s thigh, lets the urge to deflect rise and crest and drain away—and he thinks about it.

“I did,” he says, eventually, his voice blurry and muffled against David’s skin. “I didn’t know that I wanted it, but I really liked it.”

“I’m glad,” David says, and when Patrick turns his head up to look, David is beaming down at him, private and pleased. “Of course,” he continues, shaking his head in regret, “I didn’t give your outfit _half_ the attention it deserves, but, well.” He lifts one eyebrow. “You’re very distracting.”

“I mean.” Patrick gives a horizontal half-shrug. “I don’t have to take it off just yet.” He rallies his overwhelmed muscles and rolls awkwardly onto his back, landing in an ungainly sprawl. He spreads his arms and legs, watching David watch his every motion. “If you want.” 

David stares at him, eyes dark and intent, the moment stretching out between them. Patrick can feel the place where he’d normally feel exposed and vulnerable, but something about the costume and the lingering aftershocks of orgasm means that he just feels good, lazy and somehow powerful, floating on David’s gaze, seen and wanted and known.

Patrick wonders, vaguely, if this is how David feels, in his fancy sweaters and his pants-that-look-like-skirts and skirts-that-are-actually-pants: like somebody worth looking at. Like a sunset, like a work of art, like something to be admired. 

It’s—not a bad feeling, actually. Terrifying, a little, but not bad.

“God,” David says, low and explosive, “you’re so—I don’t even know, oh my _god_.” He shakes his head, shifting around until he’s straddling Patrick’s thighs. “This is going to be stupidly fast,” he warns, shoving down his underwear and getting a hand around his dick. “Fuck, I want to—can I—” He rolls his hips forward, slow and deliberate, painting a sticky trail of precome over Patrick’s skin. 

“Um—” It’s awkward and oversensitive, just shy of uncomfortable; Patrick shifts his weight, trying to find the right angle. “Or I can just—”

“No, no, hang on,” David says, reaching up to fumble in the drawer of the nightstand. He comes back with a palmful of lube, smears it against his dick and the crease of Patrick’s hip, and thrusts again, groaning in satisfaction. “ _Much_ better.” He settles into a slow, dirty grind, rocking half against the harness, half against Patrick’s dick, still soft and wet and sensitive.

“David, fuck.” Patrick rests his hands on David’s hips, feeling the way his muscles and tendons tense and release in obscene rhythm, cupping his palm over the arch of David’s hipbone. “Just like that, David, come on, yeah.” David’s hips stutter into a desperate, uncoordinated double-time, his breathing fast and shallow; Patrick tugs him closer, urging him on. 

“Oh,” David gasps, “I’m, oh, I’m close, I’m going to—”

“I want it, David,” Patrick says, “give it to me, let me have it.” David makes a high, shocked noise and comes all over them both, still thrusting, fucking his own come against Patrick’s skin. It’s filthy and perfect, hot and wet and disgusting and wonderful; Patrick lets David slow himself to a stop and then pulls him close, curling them together in a beautifully sticky mess.

They lie there in silence for a long time, sweat cooling, their breathing syncing up

“That was—”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, brushing a kiss against David’s forehead. “Yeah, it was—yeah.” He shifts, uncomfortably aware of the way his costume is clinging to him. “Fuck, this is going to be so stained, Candice is going to murder me.”

“Rock salt and white vinegar,” David says promptly. “Well, dish soap to start, but after that—although, do you have rock salt?” He rolls over, propping himself up on one arm. “I have some at the motel, if you don’t.” He frowns. “Or hydrogen peroxide will work, in a pinch.” He starts to sit up, winces, collapses back down to the bed. “Ugh, sorry, just give me a second to—fucking _legs_ —”

“It’s fine, David,” Patrick says, rolling upright and off the bed. “I’ve got it.”

What he’s got, ultimately, is a damp washcloth. David doesn’t seem to mind, though: he stretches and preens under Patrick’s hands, twisting and arching, all elegant lines and languid, sated confidence.

“You’re so fucking—” Patrick starts, pauses, shakes his head. “God, David, forget about _me_ , do you even know what _you_ look like?”

“Pretend I don’t,” David says, pressing his body into Patrick’s hands. “Tell me anyways.”

“You look—” _like a dream,_ Patrick thinks, _like art, like really expensive porn._ He exhales, swipes the cloth over David’s dick, his balls, the soft tender skin of his thighs.

“Yeah?” David’s eyes are half-lidded, his face all sensual appreciation.

“You look like—” Patrick sighs. “Like everything I couldn’t admit I wanted,” he says.

“Oh, I don’t know,” David smiles up at him, his gaze warm and full of understanding, like he’s staring into Patrick’s mind, like he likes what he sees. “I think you’ve done okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to thingswithwings, whetherwoman, leupagus, and j, all of whom looked at various parts of this and made approving noises.


End file.
